“I’m working on it,” she said, though she knew he couldn’t hear her. “Really I am.”
He said nothing, of course. She turned away from him, and looked at the still-bubbling goo in the brass bowl.
It was thicker, and didn’t smell as savory anymore; she hoped it wasn’t going to do anything disastrous. It had shown no signs of supernatural activity since that one clear chime, but it had to be some sort of magic-her athame had reacted, and there had been the chime, and what else could it be? Ithanalin hadn’t done any non- magical cooking since the squid gravy incident.
She needed to restore Ithanalin before this stuff, whatever it was, did something dreadful. She looked up Javan’s Restorative in her master’s book once more, and began gathering the ingredients for the spell.
She had already found most of them-peacock plumes, incense, athame....
She turned back to the kitchen. “Mistress Yara?” she called.
“Lirrin, put that down! Yes, Kilisha?”
“Could you stop by the herbalist and get jewelweed? I need... oh, I don’t know. A bag or a jar or a bundle or whatever it comes in.”
“Jewelweed?” Yara stuck her head through the door. “What’s jewelweed?”
“I have no idea,” Kilisha admitted, “but the spell calls for it.”
“Is it expensive?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hmph. Well, I’ll see.”
“Thank you.”
Yara withdrew, and Kilisha looked around at the drawers and shelves and cabinets, Ithanalin might already have jewelweed tucked away somewhere. It wasn’t an ingredient in any of the spells Kilisha had learned as yet, but presumably he might have kept a supply on hand in case he ever wanted to perform Javan’s Restorative.
Where would it be, then?
Kilisha began exploring the workshop, with special attention to the less-familiar areas-though she was not foolish enough to open anything with a visible rune or seal on it. Unless (jewelweed had some very special properties, she couldn’t see why Ithanalin would have put magical protections on it.
She had gone through perhaps half a dozen drawers, and was sneezing uncontrollably at some fine gray powder she had stirred up when a sticky drawer finally popped open, when Yara and the children trooped past her and out the front door.
Wiping her nose on the back of her hand, Kilisha blinked her watering eyes and stepped into the parlor to make sure they were safely on their way, and that the door had been closed behind them.
The coatrack rattled enthusiastically at the sight of her, and the door latch popped open.
“Stop that,” she said. She had forgotten that the latch, too, was animated; she would need to be careful to include it in the spell when she attempted Javan’s Restorative on her master. She crossed to the door and was about to close it when someone knocked on the frame.
Startled, she said, “Mistress?”
“Open, in the name of the overlord!” a deep male voice said.
Astonished, Kilisha opened the door a crack and peered out.
A guardsman in full uniform-red kilt, yellow tunic, gleaming helmet and breastplate-was standing there, one fist resting on the doorframe as he looked her in the eye. Her own gaze dropped, and that was when she saw the big leather pouch on his belt, the overlord’s seal prominently displayed on the flap.
A tax collector.
Well, that was no surprise, really; the one who had come yesterday had not managed to collect what Ithanalin owed.
“My master isn’t in,” Kilisha said.
“You’re an apprentice? A wizard?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I’ll speak with you, if you’ll let me in.”
Kilisha blinked in surprise. “I-I don’t think I’m allowed to pay the taxes...”
“That’s not why I’m here.” The soldier hesitated, then said, “Well, it’s not the only reason I’m here, anyway. Could you let me in, please?”
Puzzled, Kilisha opened the door and moved aside. The guardsman smiled and stepped into the parlor. He looked around at the almost-empty room, and at the coatrack leashed in the corner.
“I see the furniture isn’t back,” he said.
“No,” Kilisha said. “You’re the tax collector who was here yesterday?”
“Yes. My name’s Kelder.”
“I’m Kilisha.”
“You said your master isn’t in? But he’s all right?”
“Well-not exactly.”
“He looked sort of frozen yesterday.”
“He was. A spell went wrong.”
“I thought so, when all that furniture came charging out. Will he be all right?”
Kilisha hesitated, then admitted the truth. “He will be if I can get all the furniture back.”
“Ah. Well, that’s why I’m here. When I left here yesterday, I followed the furniture-I thought maybe it wasn’t supposed to be running loose like that. It split up, though, and I lost track of some of it, but I did catch a chair and a bench.”
“You did?” Kilisha’s face lit up. “Where are they? Do you have them with you?”
He shook his head. “No, I couldn’t manage both of them- they squirm.” After dealing with the coatrack, Kilisha could sympathize. “I had some of the other guards help, and I cornered them, and they’re locked in a storeroom.”
“Where?”
“In the shipyards, near Wargate High Street.”
Kilisha blinked. “The shipyards? How did they get there’?’”
“They ran,” Kelder said dryly.
Chapter Twelve
After explaining that she couldn’t leave the house until her mistress returned from shopping, Kilisha escorted Kelder to the kitchen, where she questioned him for the better part of an hour-and answered a few of his questions, as well, though she didn’t go into detail about exactly what spell had gone wrong, or how, or why she needed the furniture back before she could restore Ithanalin to full mobility.
Kelder told her that when the door had opened and he had stepped inside, it had seemed as if the entire roomful of furniture was charging at him. He had stepped back and lifted his truncheon-guards did not ordinarily carry swords or spears when on tax-collection duty-and had shouted for the furniture to stop, but it had ignored him.
A few pieces had run out the door, and he had run after them, and the rest had all come rushing after him, and he had been afraid he would be trampled. He had retreated a few yards cast on Wizard Street.
The furniture had all headed west, in a pack; he wasn’t sure whether it was all trying to get away from him, or what. He had followed, a bit warily.
The faster pieces had galloped down the three blocks to Cross Avenue, leaving the slower-the rug, the coatrack, and what he called “the little stuff ”-behind. The coatrack had been the first to change course, when it turned up an alley to the north; Kelder had hesitated, and almost lost sight of the main group, whereupon he decided to let the small slow ones go and concentrate on the bigger pieces, which were presumably the more valuable and more potentially dangerous or disruptive.
The street had been almost deserted-after all, a tax collector had been at work-and most of the people who saw the furniture also saw him in hot pursuit, and stayed out of the way. The furniture had therefore made its
